


Olympia (or, the art of imperfection)

by canardroublard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, confused dorks who eventually figure it out, my beta said "this totally makes me think maybe I should have a threesome", which might be the best review I've ever gotten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: Art school isn't quite as perfect as Gaby was hoping. The hours are long, the classes difficult, and why is shealwayscovered in charcoal? But she's finding that imperfection isn't all that bad. Especially when imperfection arrives in two equally beautiful but vastly different classmates. And so what if she hastinycrushes on both of them? She can deal with that. Right? Absolutely. Totally. One-hundred-percent not a problem. Not even a little.





	Olympia (or, the art of imperfection)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nymphae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymphae/gifts).



_**september** _

 

 _As if having to do drawing classes weren't horrible enough_ , Gaby thinks as she takes another desperate pull from her coffee, eyeing the fifteen other students who are shuffling around nervously, _they just_ have _to happen at 8:30 a.m._

Back when she'd applied to art school, she'd known that drawing classes were required of all first-year students. Admissions had made that very clear. But the distant notion of 'drawing classes' had seemed much more palatable back when she could merely imagine them as a brief detour on her journey through the photography program.

Now, however, it's her very first day, her very first class, she's never drawn a damn _thing_ in her life, and she should probably stop drinking coffee because her stomach is already churning from nerves alone.

"Right, I believe that's everyone, so let's get started, shall we?" says an impossibly chipper voice, interrupting Gaby's thoughts. "My name is Alexander Waverly, this is Drawing 1100, and I don't know about you lot, but I'm rather looking forward to this."

 _At least one of us is,_ Gaby thinks, a little murderously.

* * *

And as if 8:30 a.m. drawing classes, for someone with no drawing experience beyond stick figures, weren't horrible enough, it becomes obvious that the guy at the next easel over is some sort of drawing genius. Even in basic exercises, he's running circles around her. Drawing circles. Whatever. Either way, he's about as good at drawing as he is absurdly tall.

So when they're told to set up in a circle and draw the person to their left, Gaby nearly groans in dismay. Of course she doesn't get paired with someone who's struggling at least a little. No, she has to draw this guy, and whatever she produces will undoubtedly look like something he could've drawn in his sleep.

She cannot _wait_ for photography class.

* * *

"Well done, everyone, I think that's it for now. Let's all have a wander 'round the circle and see what we've got."

Gaby might honestly prefer to die. But since no lightning shoots down from the heavens to save her, she steps back from her easel and stares at the haphazard collection of pencil marks that she's produced over the last twenty minutes.

Maybe it's less terrible than she thinks? The head looks too small, the legs too long, and the less said about the face the better. But it's recognizable as a person. Looking at it too long isn't helping her state of mind at all, so she shakes herself and turns to peer at her subject's easel.

"Oh, wow," Gaby finds herself breathing. Her former subject glances up at her words, seemingly startled.

"You like it?" he asks carefully, voice deep and musical with Slavic tones. With one overlarge hand, he indicates his paper. "It's not...I was nervous."

"It looks great," she assures him. "Real artsy and shit."

"Artsy and shit?"

"I don't know how drawing works. Look, it's really good, that's all I’m trying to say."

"Thanks." He nods towards her easel. "How did yours go?"

Gaby just scoffs. But before she can stop him, he walks over, head tilting as he stares down at his own image, inexpertly rendered by her hand.

"Is...not bad. I like, ah, I like how you did the arms."

"You don't have to pretend it's good," she huffs, bristling at the false praise. "It's shit, I know. Sorry I fucked up your face so bad."

To her surprise, he lets out a little chuff, not a full laugh but something amused. "Face is already fucked up," he says as he points to the crescent moon scar she'd noticed while she was attempting and failing to draw his visage. When he taps his temple and shrugs, a cautious half smile emerging on his face, Gaby finds herself smiling back.

"I'm Illya," he offers, seeming uncertain whether to shake her hand or not and instead settling on an awkward little wave. Gaby feels her smile grow a bit.

"Gaby." She mirrors his wave, and his half smile turns into a full grin.

She's not entirely sure, but she thinks she has just made a friend.

 

* * *

Art history is another one of those courses that had sounded much less intimidating when it had just been a brief paragraph in the catalogue. But as Gaby has discovered, they don't just get to look at pretty paintings and throw around fancy words. No, she has to actually learn _history_. Starting with the entirety of the French Revolution.

Holed up in the lounge of the photo department, which she's discovered is deserted at 9 on a Friday night apart from the quiet sounds of someone working in the nearby darkroom, she frowns at her notebook, trying to make sense of her scrawled notes. She thinks that 'rcc' means rococo, but what was 'JLD' supposed to stand for, again?

Absorbed as she is in trying to remember the symbolism of Fragonard's _The Swing_ , she doesn't even hear footsteps approaching until a low voice speaks.

"Hey, did you leave your prints by the processor? I was just finishing up my contact sheets and I saw them, and since I figured you were the only one around..."

When Gaby looks up, she finds one of the photo techs, who works part-time maintaining the darkroom equipment and helping first-years like her learn the ropes.

"Oh, yeah, those are mine," Gaby says, reaching up to take the small stack of black and white prints. "I must've forgotten them, thanks."

"No worries. They're good, by the way. Nice composition," he adds, gesturing to the photo on the top, a portrait of Illya, whom she'd coaxed into posing for her. The tech squints around the room with that disoriented, bleary look she's noticed on people who spend too long in the darkroom. "Any idea what time it is?"

"Nine-ish?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"No?"

"Damn," he sighs as he drags a hand over his face. "Time is so weird in there. No clocks, no windows, nothing. I thought it was seven, maybe eight." With a thump he collapses into the chair opposite hers, somehow managing to fall into a careless sprawl which really shouldn't look as attractive as it does. Gaby bites her lip and looks back down at Illya, staring past the camera, his blue eyes shining even in black-and-white.

"How's the French Revolution treating you?" the tech asks, hand still over his face, reminding her that he’s not just a tech. He’s also a third-year student, who has been through this already. "Anyone lose their head yet?"

"Not yet," Gaby chuckles. "We haven't even gotten to the actual revolution. How did you remember all of this, your first year? I'm so lost."

His shoulders twitch in a shrug. "Always had a knack for history. Thought about doing it as my major for a while. What's got you tripped up now?"

"Any idea what 'JLD' might stand for? I can't remember."

"Jacques-Louis David," he replies without hesitation. "Painter of the revolution. You're still on all of that pre-revolutionary rococo fluff?" he asks, waiting for her nod before continuing. "You're in for a treat with David. No more hedonism and rich people. _Oath of the Horatii_ is about as far from that as possible, a real feel-good about a few guys who end up murdering their own sisters for the sake of ‘honour’."

"That sounds horrible," Gaby says, laughing a little at the dark humour of his tone. "I thought all of these old paintings were supposed to be bowls of fruit and rich people in fancy clothes."

"Oh boy, just wait 'til you get to _Raft of the Medusa_. Fun times with cannibalism."

"Seriously?" she asks, feeling her nose wrinkle at the thought as she shakes her head. "God, that's nasty. I might take murdering your sisters over that," she adds after a brief pause to huff her hair out of her face.

When she glances over again, she finds him watching her, face softened by a warm little quirk of a smile that makes something flutter in her stomach. Catching her gaze, he looks away.

"Anyways," he says, jerking his head towards the darkroom. "I should get back to the mines. Gotta clean out the processor before I shut it down for the night."

As he hefts himself out of the chair, Gaby, before she can overthink it, finds herself speaking again.

"You're Napoleon, right? I missed it when professor—um, Steve," she corrects herself, unaccustomed to the casualness of calling teachers by their first names, "introduced the photo techs to us, but I heard Victoria call you that the other day."

He groans, making a face. "Yeah, but she's the only one who calls me that. No matter how much I tell her to stop. Everyone else calls me Solo." Turning to look back at her, he bites his lip for a moment. "You're Gaby?"

"How did you...?"

Solo grins. "Heard a couple of the profs talking about this first-year who did great portraits. Don't tell Steve I said anything, though." Before she has time to process this surprise, Solo waves then turns to leave. "See ya' around, Gaby."

 

* * *

"I still can't believe you missed the first class with model," Illya says as he toes off his shoes and sets them beside her door. "It was great."

"Really?" Gaby asks skeptically, sticking a hand out to take his drawing tube. "I don't get what the fuss is about, standing around drawing a naked person."

"You don't get what the fuss is about any drawing," Illya teases her, face brightening with that saucy little grin he gets when proud of himself for some quip. "You're feeling better now, yes?"

"I'm fine, was just a weird twenty-four hour bug. Come in, sorry about the mess," she adds, moving a pile of mostly clean clothes off the sofa so they can sit down. With Illya's assent, she uncaps the tube and shakes loose the curled up drawings, spreading them out on the coffee table.

"This is what you were so excited about?" Gaby frowns down at the scrawl of smudged, hasty charcoal lines on newsprint, only vaguely resembling a person.

"Just a gesture drawing. Five seconds, maybe ten," Illya tells her with a roll of his eyes. "Keep going, longer poses are later." While she pulls the next drawing from the stack, Illya leans back, slinging an endlessly long arm along the top of the sofa. "How's photo going?"

"Good." She squints at another explosion of charcoal, struggling to pick out the figure from the chaos. Illya takes the drawing, fingers brushing hers and sending a spark up Gaby's arm, then turns it sideways. "Oh," she says as the lines coalesce into limbs and a torso. "But yes, photo is good. The tech was showing me a trick for reeling film faster today."

"Same tech who helped you with the processor last week?" Illya asks, grinning. "The nice one?"

"What? Maybe, I guess," Gaby evades, staring down at the newsprint in her hands before she chances a look at Illya. After a moment, she still doesn't find an inconspicuous way to ask any of the questions she desperately wants answered about what _this_ is and what his _deal_ is and whether she's reading too much into everything. So she looks at the drawing once more. "And I just call him the nice one because the other tech is a total nightmare."

Illya snorts. "You may have mentioned that once or twice," he says, both of them knowing that Gaby had ranted to him for nearly ten minutes last week about Victoria, and how Gaby sincerely hopes that the fourth-year graduates before Gaby ever has to take advanced photo courses. Or maybe Victoria could just drop off the face of the earth. Gaby isn't picky. "This is the start of longer poses," Illya explains as she gets to a drawing which looks more polished than the first batch. "Thirty seconds."

"Was it weird?" she asks. The ten second poses were merely amorphous suggestions of a figure, and though the thirty second drawings still aren't tight enough for the features to be recognizable, this is definitely a person, a man, and wow, he is _definitely_ nude.

"Maybe for first few seconds. But not really. Is very strict, the rules for students. We aren't allowed to interact with model at all. Not even talking. We only draw. And even if we could talk, there's no time. Short poses, need to concentrate. Plus, everyone is exhausted and covered in charcoal," Illya says with a waggle of his now-clean fingers. "Not very sexy."

"Good point," she snorts as she flips to another drawing, this one an even more detailed rendering of the model facing away from the viewer. "Oh, this is great. Longer pose?"

"Five minutes." Illya's mouth tightens in a faint frown. "These ones are more difficult than the thirty second poses, for me. I think I overwork this one." He points to the line of the model's back, an elegant arch leading into broad shoulders, which is drawn in thicker, darker marks than the rest, hazy in places where Illya scuffed out the charcoal with his bare hands before redrawing. "Here, couldn't get this right. I have more practice drawing women. And this model, he was very muscular. So it's different."

Gaby eyes the drawing again, trying to see it through Illya's more critical lense. "Maybe," she concedes. "You did good on his ass, though." It's not a lie; it's a very nice ass in Gaby's opinion.

Illya lets out a surprised huff of laughter, rolling his eyes. "Glad I got the important things right," he chuckles. When Gaby grins at him, he leans over and nudges her with his shoulder, easy and playful, his smile utterly captivating. She tells herself that her heart skips a beat at the sight because she's had too much coffee today. That's the only reason.

 

_**october** _

 

"I still don't understand the purpose of Halloween," Illya grumbles, tugging sullenly at the too-small lab coat that Gaby had forced him into as a last-minute 'scientist' costume. "Why not just give your own children candy? And why the silly costumes?"

"Why are you asking me?" she shoots back, adjusting the scarf in her hair. "It's not a thing in Germany either. Americans are just strange. Besides, I think for adults it's just another excuse to get drunk and party."

"And why is this party happening so early? Is still a week until the 31st."

"He said he was trying to host it early so it wouldn't be so close to midterms," Gaby says as she raps on the front door, hoping that she's got the right address. In the pause that follows, she's just beginning to doubt herself when the door swings open and a guy she doesn't recognize is blinking down at her.

"Solo invited me?" she tries. "Gaby."

"Ah, yeah, one of the first-years. I think he invited the whole pack of you," the guy tells her with a grin as he offers a hand to shake, a strangely formal gesture for a man wearing a bright yellow minion costume. "I'm Jones. C'mon in, make yourself at home, grab a drink. Solo's around here somewhere." Without further ceremony Jones disappears into the house, so Gaby glances at Illya, who shrugs, and they follow him in.

If Solo is around somewhere, Gaby can't see him. But she and Illya both recognize other first-years, and they end up splitting up to talk to their respective classmates, drifting apart until she only catches the occasional glimpse of blond hair above the crowd. When she wanders closer, he seems to be happily chatting with someone, so she leaves him to it and heads to the kitchen, partially to look for refreshments but mostly because it's deserted and she wants a moment to herself.

There's a rather sad-looking veggie tray, which Gaby digs into as she hauls herself up onto the counter, seeking relief for her aching feet, which are sore from standing all day in the darkroom. She's got a slightly undignified amount of baby carrots in her mouth, crunching away and thumbing at her phone without any real intent, when she hears footsteps on the tile floor.

"Hey, you made it," Solo says by way of greeting, an easy smile emerging on his face as he busies himself with refilling a few bowls of chips. "Wasn't sure if you were too cool for us or not."

Based on the fact that Gaby has to hold up a finger, begging a moment's pause while she finishes her mouthful of carrots, she suspects that this is sufficient evidence to discount her being too cool for anyone.

"Had to pick up Illya on my way," she explains. Suddenly realizing that she's sitting on his kitchen counter, she shifts, apologizing as she prepares to jump down.

"No, no, stay, it's fine," Solo tells her, ambling across the room to lean against the counter on the opposite side of the veggie tray. "So, where is this Illya I've seen so much of, anyways? Your muse."

"I don't take _that_ many pictures of him," Gaby replies, hating the flush she can feel rising on her cheeks.

"Sure."

"I _don't_."

"Whatever you say," Solo drawls through a smirk. But when she scowls at him, his expression loses its edge. "Hey, sorry," he says, earnest. "I didn't mean to— Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain."

"It's okay," she says, meaning it. She may have no idea what, if anything, will come of her crush on Illya, but Solo wouldn't know that and doesn't deserve shit for it. "I like your costume," she adds in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Thank you kindly," he says with a tip of his red hat. His eyes flick up and down her body once, then he grins. "Rosie the Riveter?"

In confirmation, Gaby flexes her arm and attempts her best determined smirk, more pleased than perhaps she should be when he huffs out a laugh at her antics.

She's expecting Solo to leave after that, go back to working the crowd. After all, it's his party. But instead he begins chatting with her about photography, asking about her favourite subjects, then regaling her with a story about a classmate's determined struggles to do darkroom prints on a toilet seat. While he's midway through describing a setback involving mislabelled garbage bags and accidental light exposure, Gaby spies Illya through the doorway, and waves to him as Solo continues talking.

"—and do you have any idea how hard it is to do test strips when you've only got one toilet seat? She ended up needing to put Liquid Light on the toilet lid too and using that as a tester. And that stuff is expensive."

Following her gaze, Solo turns to face Illya, opening his mouth to introduce himself but stopping when Illya freezes and stares at him.

"Illya?" she asks, unable to find any explanation for his bizarre reaction. "This is Solo, the photo tech."

"Hey," Solo says with a friendly wave.

"Ah, hi," Illya replies while turning several different shades of pink. "I don't, um..."

"Sorry, I feel terrible, have we met somewhere?" Solo's puzzlement seems genuine enough. "Oh, jeez, you weren't living here around St. Patrick's Day, were you?"

Illya squints, still gaping like his thoughts are not quite reaching his mouth in a timely manner. "No?"

"Thank God. I don't know _where_ Jones found those goats, but I swear..." he trails off, mumbling something in conclusion that sounds like "please don't Google it."

"But, how _do_ you know him?" Gaby says to Illya.

"He was, um, a few weeks ago..."

"Oh, yeah, that's it," Solo interrupts. "You're in Waverly's class, right? Your studies were really good from what I saw."

"You were in our drawing class? How did I not..." Gaby thinks for a second before turning to Illya. "That must've been the week I was sick. But why was he there?"

"Well, he—" Illya sputters, looking like he wants to disappear through the floor rather than explain.

"Nothing quite like meeting the nude model in the, well, _not_ in the flesh, as it were. The opposite, if anything," Solo provides, smiling at his own turn of phrase but otherwise unaffected. "I don't usually do those gigs but Waverly's first model dropped out last minute and, not gonna lie, I wasn't going to turn down the money."

As Illya continues to stare at the tiles as if begging them to swallow him up, Gaby lets out a chuckle, grinning at Solo.

"You're the guy I saw in all of Illya's beautiful drawings?"

"Yep, that's my bare ass." He shrugs and grabs another celery stick.

 _And it was a rather nice ass,_ Gaby remembers, biting her lip at the thought.

"So, Illya, scientist?" Solo asks, gesturing to the lab coat.

"Yes,” Illya manages, seeming to rouse himself with determination to stop being embarrassed. “And you're a cowboy?"

"Wha— I mean, I'm not 'a cowboy', I'm Woody," Solo responds in a vaguely indignant sputter. "From Toy Story? No?"

"Is this 'Woody' a cowboy?"

"Not r— well, technically yes, but that's not—"

"So, you are cowboy," Illya declares with a  decisive nod.

Solo opens his mouth, taking a breath as if gearing up to debate this. But then he just shakes his head and snorts. "Sure, good enough for me."

Getting over their initial awkwardness, they begin to chat about drawing, one of the _other_ majors that Solo has apparently dabbled in, when one of Gaby's classmates from intro to studio practice calls her into the other room. Thoroughly absorbed in their conversation about which upper-level profs to avoid, Illya and Solo just wave as she hops down from the counter and wanders off.

That they seem to be getting along isn't a surprise to Gaby. For all of Illya's grumpiness, both real and affected, he has a deep-seated kindness that resonates with people, and Solo is just plain charming. But what does surprise her when she returns to the kitchen ten minutes later, having thoroughly lost an art history drinking game that she'd never really understood the rules of, is that Illya and Solo are _still_ talking.

And not just that, but talking in Russian.

Based on the way that Illya has lit up, thrilled to find someone who speaks his language, and how Solo is smiling at his enthusiasm and listening attentively, Gaby is pretty certain that they, too, have just made a friend.

 

* * *

The first thing that Illya does when he joins her in the drawing classroom, empty apart from her and the skeleton they're supposed to be drawing for homework, is greet her with a grin.

The second thing he does is tell her that he ran into Solo in the lobby.

"He says 'hi', by the way," Illya adds as he picks up one of the metal easels with a complete lack of visible effort which makes Gaby a little ashamed for being annoyed at the weight of the damn things. "Wished us good luck for midterms. Sorry I'm late, we were talking and I got distracted."

"No problem," Gaby responds as she flicks her gaze between her drawing and the skeleton, frowning. There's something off about the proportions that she can't quite put her finger on. "You two seem pretty friendly now," she adds, though she's not certain why.

"Oh yes, we are friends now, I think. I can see why you like him, he's very nice," Illya enthuses before pausing and pursing his lips in a sort of shrug. "Also a bit of an ass. But a nice ass."

Despite herself, Gaby snickers. "Yeah, _nice ass_. That's Solo."

Illya rolls his eyes. "Yes, that too. How is your drawing going?"

"I don't know," she tells him after she takes a brief moment to push down her curiosity. Most men she's known would have deflected rather than simply agree to complimenting another guy's ass. But it's not her business to ask, so she just glares at her drawing some more. "Can you have a look?"

Standing behind her, Illya leans forward to gaze over her shoulder. "Legs look too short."

"What? No, if anything I thought they were too long." She twists to look up at him. "Are you sure?"

Glancing at her drawing, then the skeleton, then the drawing again, Illya squints. Then he bursts into a chuckle, making her bristle.

"Stop laughing at me."

"No, no, not at you," he assures her, setting one enormous hand on her right shoulder as he steps closer. "Just realized that you are looking at things from all the way down there. So your perspective is different. Here, don't move, let me see." Her left shoulder is covered with his other hand, and then Illya bends downwards until his chin is resting atop it.

"Really?" she asks, torn between laughing at his antics and turning around to glare murder at him. "Is that actually helping?"

"Yes, if you stop squirming. Stay," he tells her, as if speaking to a particularly foolish dog, making Gaby swear and elbow him in the ribs. Illya lets out an annoyed chuff. "Do you want my help or not?"

She considers saying no, more out of spite than anything else, but realizes that she does need his help, so with a grumbled "fine" she falls still.

"That's better," Illya murmurs, voice rumbling in his chest, making something in her stomach swoop. Somehow, she hadn't noticed just how close he is until now, and with this realization comes a stunning urge to lean back into his chest, press her cheek against his, and pull him around her. There are times that she almost forgets the sheer size of him, but at moments like these she feels tiny next to him. Swallowing, she glances away from his face, to her right, and sees his broad hand completely engulfing the round of her shoulder. _God_ , those hands.

Illya seems to take her dazed, faintly aroused paralysis for docility, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. He begins to talk about her drawing, pointing to certain areas and measuring the skeleton's proportions with a pencil. She should probably be listening to what he's saying, but he's so close and so warm and his hands are so beautiful and his voice is so deep and Gaby might be moments away from spontaneously combusting.

"—should help with the legs. So, you understand?"

"...Yes," she lies.

Her self-control must be better than she'd realized; she actually lets him walk away.

 

**_november_ **

 

"See, this is what you first-years need to learn. Come to all of the openings for the food," Solo tells her while piling some cheese cubes onto a paper plate. "Shame Illya couldn't make it, with his size he probably needs all the help he can get to keep his grocery bills down."

"Oh, you didn't come here to see nude people wrapping themselves in plastic shopping bags and slowly contorting across the gallery space?" Gaby asks coyly, leaning close enough so her words don't travel.

Solo snickers, nudging her with his shoulder as they peel away from the food table. "Believe it or not, I did get something out of the performance. This place has ruined my ability to be snidely ignorant about 'weird' art."

"Illya says that's one of the perils of going to art school. He's got a whole list of 'art school perils'."

"Really? I'd love—" Solo, who seems to know everyone, interrupts himself to exchange a wave with someone before turning back to Gaby. "What are some of his other 'perils'? Do tell."

"Being covered in charcoal all the time, not being able to watch any mass media without seeing their use of the male gaze, I don't know, you'd have to ask him for the rest."

"I will," he says, intrigued enough that Gaby suspects he intends to follow through. He pauses then, frowning around the reception before stepping into her space. "Want to ditch these squares and check out the new exhibit on ukiyo-e prints?" he asks in a warm hush. "Rest of the galleries should still be open."

"Did you literally just come to this opening to get free food and leave?"

"Hey, you're welcome to stay and chat, Gabs," Solo grins, surprising her by how she actually doesn't mind the nickname from him. "Or, you could finish that profiterole, skip out, and we can see some art that'll blow your mind."

"God, you're a terrible influence." Though her censure is probably undercut by the way she's struggling not to smile back at him.

He shrugs, starting to slip away. "I've been called worse. You in?"

Gaby glances around the crowd of hipsters she doesn't know, all trying to one-up each other with their art trivia, then turns to find Solo looking back at her with a grin which has probably gotten him both into and out of a lot of trouble.

She crams the rest of the profiterole into her mouth and follows him and his mischievous grin.

 

* * *

As Gaby sinks a bit further into the sofa of the once again deserted lounge with a contented sigh, Illya warm at her side, she hears a voice come from the doorway.

"Y'know, technically you're not supposed to be drinking on campus."

"It's just one beer," Gaby says, pouting at Solo and failing to mention the beer that preceded this one. At her side, Illya snickers. "Besides, we earned it."

"Oh?" Solo asks as he settles on the sofa, sandwiching her between him and Illya.

"Just got all of our midterm grades back, and we passed art history!"

"Never doubted you would," Solo says with a smile. He casts a furtive look around the deserted photo lounge, then plucks the beer from her hand and takes a swig.

"Bastard," she mutters, giving him a rather ungentle whack on the arm. "C'mon, give it back."

"I'm confiscating it," he replies solemnly, holding the bottle out of reach when she tries to grab it back. "So you won't get in trouble with security. Really, you should be thanking me." Then he has another drink.

"You are so dead to me." When he just sticks his arm out even further to prevent her from reclaiming the bottle, she looks around, then snatches Illya's beer for herself.

"Hey!"

"Confiscating it," she explains. "Doing you a favour."

Instead of getting mad, Illya snorts and calls them both absurd, grinning the whole time. "There's an easier solution than this," he says. "We go back to my place. Only a few blocks away. And I have beer. So no more fighting."

Gaby considers this offer for a moment, then glances to Solo. "What do you think? Gang up on him and steal all of his beer?"

"I like the way you think, Miss Teller."

* * *

Illya's apartment, it turns out, is a bit of a shithole. A dingy basement bachelor pad, just big enough for a tiny kitchen, a huge bed, and a threadbare armchair. But it's close to campus and he lives alone, both things that Gaby can only aspire to at the moment. She claims the armchair for herself, tossing her legs over the side as she takes the proffered beer from Illya.

"Sorry, don't have many people over," Illya says to Solo, looking around with a guilty grimace. "Can sit on the bed. It's clean."

"No worries, that'll do just fine," Solo drawls through one of those easy, disarming smiles that always seems to get Illya a little flustered. He sits against the headboard and kicks his feet out. "You coming, Mr. Art School Perils?"

Sure enough, Illya flushes slightly as Solo invites him onto his on bed. But he settles next to Solo, passing over a beer.

"So, _Cowboy_ ," Illya teases, seeming to have regained his composure, "how did your exams go?"

"Good. History of photo was a breeze, and that was the only real 'exam' I had. Midterm projects went okay."

"Then we are all celebrating tonight."

"I'll drink to that," Gaby says, lifting her bottle in salute and grinning when they do the same.

* * *

About an hour later, after they've gotten sick of talking about school and made it through a surprisingly thorough discussion about which Spiderman is the best, Solo has fallen into storyteller mode again, regaling them with some teenage indiscretion that has Illya choking back helpless giggles, a sound Gaby couldn't have imagined him making until she's hearing it for herself. And soon Illya's chuckles are making Solo laugh, both of them pausing to look at each other before one of them grins and sets them both off again.

They look _good_ together, Gaby realizes in one of those sudden fits of horniness that she gets when she's had a few drinks. They're both happy and relaxed, bumping shoulders and chuckling, and more than anything she now regrets taking the chair instead of joining them on the bed. They're not excluding her, but the physical distance is somehow enough that Gaby feels like the odd one out.

Their giggle fit finally subsides, leaving them staring at each other with soft smiles. Illya's eyes seem to keep slipping downwards, to Solo's mouth. Gaby can't imagine that Solo is blind to this, but his only reaction is to grin, then tip his head back to polish off the last of his beer, Illya’s gaze locked on the motions of his throat.

Despite herself, Gaby sighs. Those two haven't known each other long, but the spark between them has been obvious from the first day. And why shouldn't they be attracted to each other? They're both gorgeous. Still, some selfish part of her had hoped for...well, she's not sure what. Though it definitely wasn't to play third wheel. But they're her best friends here, and even she can admit that they'd make a really cute couple, so she'll figure out a way to get over her crushes on them. She won't mess this up.

"I should go," she says around a yawn that starts fake but turns out real. She's more tired than she'd thought. "I've got modelled forms in the morning. You two have a good night," she adds as she rises and heads for the door, managing a smile that she hopes comes across as supportive rather than faintly longing.

Solo glances at his watch. "Me too, actually. Victoria begged me to switch shifts with her, so if you're doing prints tomorrow, Gabs, I'll see you there." With a groan, he pulls himself off the bed. "Thanks for this, Peril. You're not nearly as terrible of a host as I'd feared."

"What a compliment," Illya retorts, bone dry, before getting up to see Gaby to the door. "Are we still getting together tomorrow to work on drawing homework?" he asks her.

"Yep. G'night." Gaby gives them a wave and turns to climb the stairs up to street level. Behind her, she hears Illya and Solo saying their goodbyes, voices low and warm.

Which Gaby is okay with. Extremely, very okay, and not the slightest bit envious.

 

* * *

"And you're sure it was like this when you got here?" Solo asks the next afternoon as she leads him around the darkroom's light trap.

"Are you seriously suggesting that _I_ jammed up the processor?" she shoots back, gesturing to the hulking machine in the centre of the room. "I'm not an idiot."

Solo holds his hands up in an appeasing gesture. "Well, let's crack it open and see what's up." He sheds his flannel and tosses it into one of the enlarger alcoves, leaving him in a t-shirt which has Gaby biting her lip for a moment because it's doing _amazing_ things to his chest and shoulders. Fortunately, Solo doesn't notice her gaze as he flips open the top case of the processor.

"Does it do this a lot?" she asks, peering curiously into the maw of gears and rollers that Solo has revealed.

"Every now and then," he answers while setting his hand on a roller for an experimental push. "It's old. No one's doing film prints anymore, so they stopped making these things." He draws back for a moment, looking at the side panel, and Gaby follows his gaze before reaching for a screwdriver from the tool roll he's brought along.

"Need this?" she offers.

"I—" Solo turns to look at her. "Yeah. How did you—?"

With a shrug, Gaby scrutinizes the other tools. "My stepdad is a mechanic. Um, was. Anyways, I picked up a lot from him. Could see the screw holes from here, took a guess on it being a Phillips."

"Good guess." Solo sets the panel aside and glances at her, speculative, and for a moment she stiffens because she's sure he's about to _ask_. But then he seems to sense her shift in mood and turns to gesture at the processor. "Want to take a look?"

"Sure," she says, faintly surprised that he didn't press her. She squints at the guts of the processor, leaning in to test the motion of the rollers and finding that one has bound up, which she points out to Solo. He reaches in alongside her, their hands brushing as she demonstrates the problem.

"Excellent diagnosis," Solo tells her. "Any suggestions for course of treatment, Dr. Teller?"

"Don't _call_ me that," she snaps, causing Solo to draw back a little and stare at her. She scowls, uncertain if she's more annoyed by his scrutiny or her own reaction to the reminder of her father. "Sorry, I just— Just don't call me that."

"Yeah, of course" Solo murmurs, the smirking and jovial quips of a moment earlier completely vanished from his voice. "Sorry. I didn't mean to...I'm sorry."

"It's fine." But he's still looking at her, not judgemental or irritated, which she could handle, but with genuine _concern_ and fuck, she can't do this now. "I think this gear is just being stubborn," she deflects, tapping the stuck roller. "Got any lube?"

"Yep." He disappears for a moment, then passes the can into her outstretched hand, leaning against the trough sink that the processor straddles while Gaby gets to work. "I must say," he drawls in a return to his usual good humour, "you know your stuff. Keep this up and I'll be out of a job soon."

"Stop trying to flatter me." She rolls his eyes when he just flashes her an unrepentant grin. Pausing, she tests the gears again, discovering that it's still sticking. So she dives back in. "Besides," she adds absently, "this is easy. Try rebuilding an engine sometime. Now that's a real nuisance."

"I have. And agreed, it is."

"Really?" Gaby glances at him, more than a little surprised.

His shoulders wander upwards in something like a shrug. "My dad had this old '63 Jag that he was always tearing apart, when I was a kid. Total piece of shit, but he loved that car. When he was around, I helped him out with it. And when he wasn't around, I figured it out for myself. Y'know, I can't believe I miss that thing, but it was actually kinda fun."

She wants to ask. Badly. But Solo is very conspicuously avoiding her gaze, and he was more understanding than she might have deserved when she snapped at him, so Gaby turns back to the processor. "Good car," she says, hesitating for a minute before she continues. "If you want, you could help me this weekend. Saturday. I need to do some maintenance on my bike. And Illya said he might come by after."

"Yeah?"

Gaby nods. She doesn't need help, but an extra pair of hands would probably make things go faster.

"I'll be there."

 

* * *

Solo, it turns out, is a good assistant for her motorcycle repairs. With his help, she finishes all of the pesky little maintenance jobs she's been putting off, chatting amiably as they work.

While Gaby cleans up her tools, she catches Solo eyeing her bike, open longing on his face.

"Want to go for a ride?" she finds herself asking. When Solo gives her a surprised look, she turns away, not wanting him to think she cares either way. "It's not that cold. Besides, told my roommate she could have the place to herself until seven, and I think she has her girlfriend over, so they're probably..."

"What, you don't want to head upstairs and sit around awkwardly pretending not to hear your roommate having sex?" Solo asks drily, prompting Gaby to roll her eyes and retrieve her spare helmet.

"C'mon, let's go see if your handiwork is as good as you claim," she says, tossing him the helmet as she pulls on her own and mounts her bike.

Solo settles behind her, so stiff that she can tell he's trying not to crowd her, which is sweet but fairly pointless since her bike, though not tiny, isn't large enough for the luxury of personal space. So she reaches back and tugs at his arms until his hands curl around her waist, his body solid against her back. Gaby's stomach does a strange little swoop. She swallows, shakes herself, then starts the engine, grinning when the bike comes to life with a happy purr. This will be _fun_.

* * *

Illya is just walking up her driveway as they return.

He's no stranger to her bike, he's seen her on it and she's given him a few rides. That's nothing new. So the reason he's staring like that must be Solo's presence. Gaby winces. She hadn't meant to make Illya jealous. It hadn't even occurred to her. But she refuses to feel _too_ guilty about this. After all, Illya, as far as she knows, isn't actually with Solo, and Solo could have said no.

"Have a good ride?" Illya asks once she kills the motor, his voice a bit odd with forced enthusiasm.

"It was great," Solo answers after he's got his helmet off. "Even if she does drive like a total maniac."

"I do not. Stop being dramatic."

"Dramatic? Me? What do you call that lane change you did on Duke Street if not 'dramatic'? I'm pretty sure my life flashed before my eyes. Honestly, Peril, flashbacks. And not even any of the fun stuff."

"You are so full of shit." If she keeps biting her lip, maybe she'll be able to stop herself from smiling at his antics. She has no clue how in a single moment he can be so annoying yet also make her want to laugh.

She tucks their helmets away, turning back to find Illya glancing between them, his expression shifting slowly until he finds a smile which looks a bit wistful.

"Glad you two had fun," he tells her. Seeming to shake himself, he gives Gaby a teasing nudge with his elbow as she leads them inside. "He's right, though. You do drive like a maniac."

"You two seem very eager to insult the person who said she'd buy pizza," she points out.

Despite the awkwardness of their arrival, Illya is back to his normal, slightly gruff but friendly self as they settle in for pizza and Netflix, Gaby making sure to sit at the end of the couch so the guys can be next to each other. When Illya pauses in front of the sofa, eyeing her for a moment, she doesn't think much of it, mostly because she's cursing and trying to remember her Netflix password. Distantly, she feels the cushions dip when he sits down, but she pays him no further mind.

"What are we going with?" Solo asks as he wanders in from the bathroom, pausing to grab his plate on the way.

It's only when he flops onto the couch, his shoulder brushing hers, that Gaby looks over and discovers that Illya has sat at the far end. Not, as she'd been expecting, in the middle. Forcing Solo to sit between them, and by extension next to her.

She squints at Illya. But he's reached across Solo to snatch the remote from her, and they're busily debating whether to watch The Mummy or Indiana Jones, oblivious to her confusion. Illya is making a very impassioned argument in Russian, Solo responding in kind with equal enthusiasm. They're kind of cute when they're bickering.

Gaby puts on The Mummy, silencing any further argument, and grins when Illya crows in triumph.

 

_**december** _

 

Dripping strips of freshly-processed film in hand, Gaby hurries down the corridor from the processing rooms to the nearest drying cabinet, dismayed when she opens it to find it already full with a dense forest of dangling film. With a muttered curse, she heads towards the other drying cabinet in the lounge, pausing when she rounds the corner at the sight of Illya and Solo.

And Victoria. Ugh.

"Oh, look! It's little Gaby," she simpers before Gaby has a chance to hide, making no move to help by opening the drying cabinet. "Having fun with finals?"

"Tons of fun," Gaby replies with much less sarcasm than she'd like. She holds up the film strips, about to ask for assistance, but Illya is already opening the cabinet for her before she gets a word out.

" _Careful_ ," Victoria snaps at Illya. When Solo raises an eyebrow at her, she shrugs remorselessly. "He opened it too fast. I have film in there, and he's getting dust absolutely _everywhere_."

Since Gaby is hanging her film up, she has her back to Victoria for this, which is probably for the best because she can feel herself making a face. And not a pleasant one.

"Jesus, it's fine," Solo sighs. "Really, Illya, don't worry about it. Anyways, you were just leaving, right, Victoria?"

"Mmm, yes, sadly I must be off. Alexander and I are flying to Rome to spend Christmas with his parents, and I'm in _dire_ need of a new luggage set. If I don't see you again before we leave, Napoleon, I hope that moping around your flat alone for the whole break will be every bit as thrilling this year," Victoria says with no real empathy and more than a little malice, before she suddenly switches to a tone that's not quite warm, but as close to warm as Gaby has ever heard from her, pressing a kiss to Solo's cheek. "Goodbye, darling."

"Always a pleasure, Victoria," Solo says, slippery smooth.

Victoria rolls her eyes. Then she seems to remember the other two.

"Have a lovely break, little Gaby." God, how Gaby wishes she could punch Victoria. "And...have we ever actually met?" she asks, squinting at Illya. Not letting him respond, she breezily continues. "Oh well, whoever you are, don't _ever_ open the drying cabinets like that again. And have a happy Christmas." Then, in a waft of perfumed air, she's gone.

"God, she is the _worst_ ," Gaby blurts out after a long enough moment has passed for Victoria to hopefully be out of earshot.

"Are you really going to be alone over the break?" Illya asks, turning to Solo with a concerned frown. "When I asked you said you had plans."

"Yeah, well, plans to sit around my apartment by myself are still plans," Solo shoots back, both overly cheerful and a bit challenging, like he's daring Illya to pity him. "Christmas is a scam, anyways. All of that warm and fuzzy Hallmark bullshit has gone to people's heads."

"Agreed," Gaby adds. "It's never like the movies."

Now Illya is frowning at her. "You will be alone too, Gaby?"

"I guess." She stares at her shoes, trying to act nonchalant, rather than bitter about her only choices being Christmas with her neo-Nazi uncle, which was a definite no, or three weeks of listening to more tired overtures about how _sorry_ her father is for never being around when she was growing up and how they can't change the past and how he's ready to be part of her life now. Which had somehow still tempted her for a few days, something she kind of hates herself for, but in the end she hadn't been able to face it. Something which she might hate herself for even more. And with her mom and stepdad both dead, Gaby is out of family.

"Maybe we could be alone together?" Illya offers, voice gruff, as if forcing himself to not sound hopeful. When Gaby and Solo both look at him, he shrugs. "Going back to Russia is...not good for me right now. And my mother doesn't..." He bites his lip, like there's something more to say, but ends up just shaking his head. "So, why not the three of us? Doesn't have to be a big deal."

"Sure," Solo responds, surprising her by the speed of his response. Her brain is still churning the idea around. But as she thinks, she realizes that it sounds...pretty nice, actually.

"Okay. Why not?" she says. "Could be fun."

Probably better than day-drinking alone in her flat, at least.

 

* * *

Gaby gets sick after finals. Nothing serious, but a bad enough cold that she misses all of the end of semester celebrations and early holiday parties while she is busy being stuffed up and exhausted, awaiting death in her bed.

Every day brings texts from Illya and Solo. Illya offers a steady stream of encouragement mixed with regular, worried messages about whether she's _sure_ she's okay and reminders that she can tell him if she needs _anything_. It should probably come off as pestering, but it's kind of sweet. Solo, on the other hand, will forget to text her for a day or two, then send off a barrage of cheerful greetings and pictures of a cute dog he saw and links to awful Buzzfeed quizzes. Though at least she now knows that if she were a pie, she'd be rhubarb.

A week passes before she feels human enough to leave her apartment, a lost week of vacation which she bitterly resents. But Illya invites her over immediately, which does far more to improve her mood than she'd willingly admit.

When she descends into Illya's flat, she's a little surprised that Solo isn't around. During the week, they'd both mentioned seeing each other, often enough that she'd thought for sure they'd finally hooked up. If they did, though, they're being discreet about it. And not only is Illya's flat still awful, but he has done nothing to decorate for the holidays beyond a lone Christmas card which is stuck to his fridge, bizarrely, with a piece of duct tape.

Also, his chair is broken.

"What happened?" she demands, staring at the battered piece of furniture, which is crumpled in on itself as if an elephant had attempted to sit in it.

Illya palms the back of his neck. "Ah, sorry, I forgot. Had Solo over and we, um—"

"Got it," Gaby cuts in, saving them both the embarrassment of him detailing whatever they were doing so vigourously that they broke the chair. She really doesn't need to imagine it. More. Before she can entirely shut down that line of thought, her brain has already provided a few rather breathtaking ideas.

Though oddly, Illya looks more perplexed at her interruption than grateful. "Well, okay, suppose it doesn't matter? Anyways, the bed is clean, sit where you want."

"You need more furniture," she points out as she sits on the edge of the bed, pleasantly surprised. Based on the ratty state of his now-deceased armchair, she'd figured his bed would be similarly awful, but it seems rather nice. To test this further, she lets herself flop across it sideways with an exaggerated sigh. Oh, yes, it's _quite_ nice.

"No, I don't," he says as he sits up near the pillows.

"You literally have nothing except a bed and a ruined armchair."

"So what? Only people who visit are you and Solo. Besides," Illya chuckles, causing her to look over. He grins at her. "You seem comfortable on the bed, no?"

For some reason, Gaby feels herself flush. She doesn’t think that Illya meant it as innuendo, but sometimes it's hard to tell with him. Sometimes she suspects that there's a lot more mischief in him than he normally lets show. To mask her confusion, she shrugs.

"It's alright," she admits.

"What a compliment," Illya deadpans, making Gaby snort. He is _such_ a dork.

* * *

They end up watching a movie, Illya's laptop balanced between his right knee and her left, both of them fighting for popcorn as Illya, ever studious, tells her to be _quiet_ so he can listen, and Gaby amuses herself by completely disregarding this and providing a running commentary on the bride's progress through her enemies.

Suddenly going still and attentive, Illya pauses the movie just as the action is really heating up in the bathhouse, provoking an annoyed grumble from Gaby as she looks around to see what has caught his attention. A moment later, there's a knock at the door.

"How did you—?"

"Good hearing," Illya answers nonchalantly before pushing the laptop onto her legs. "Here, don't get up."

From her spot on the bed, she can't quite see who's at the door, but as soon as he starts speaking, she knows.

"Hey, know I said I was busy tonight but things at the gallery wrapped up way sooner than I thought, so I figured I'd just drop by and— Oh, hey, Gabs," Solo interrupts himself as Illya gestures for him to come in. "Sorry, didn't realize you two were...I should go."

Gaby blinks a him. What is he _doing_? Illya looks equally confused.

"No, don't go. Stay. We're just watching a movie," Illya says, giving him a push towards the bed. "There's room. Sit."

As they approach the bed, Gaby lifts the computer, intending to shift to the side so they can sit next to each other. But before she gets far, Illya is back at her left side, Solo at her right. Even though Illya's bed is huge, Illya is also huge, and Solo isn't a small man either, so they end up needing to squeeze a bit closer, hips and shoulders solid against her, surrounding her with their reassuring presence.

Oh, and they smell amazing. With Illya returning, she notices the faint scent of his soap or shampoo or whatever it is, something warm and woody. But now she catches Solo's too, a little spicer, but still utterly masculine. Her stomach does an interested sort of flip-flop. She swallows.

"What're we watching?" Solo asks through a mouthful of popcorn, having claimed the bowl for himself.

"Kill Bill," Illya answers, nudging her with his knee. "Press play."

"Oh, right," she gets out, starting the movie again, proud that her voice doesn't seem to betray how completely distracted she's been for the past few seconds.

"Wow, great date movie, you two are all romance," Solo comments drily as the carnage continues.

Gaby looks at him in confusion, then at Illya, who is also staring at Solo, a few creases forming in his forehead.

"Huh?" Gaby asks after Solo provides no explanation.

"What?" Solo says absently, not even looking up, as if he'd just made a bland, throwaway remark, rather than what has to be either a joke that's missed the mark completely, or a bizarre misinterpretation of what's happening here.

"What do you mean, 'what'?" Illya demands.

"What do you mean, 'what do you m—?'"

"This isn't a _date_ ," Gaby blurts out, interrupting Solo. When they both gape at her, she realizes she's nearly shouted the words. But, determined not to feel embarrassed, she doesn't back down. "What? It's not. And it's not a big deal. You don't have to be..." she trails off, suddenly uncertain whether Solo and Illya are actually together or if they just hooked up, and not wanting to put her foot in someone else's relationship by throwing around words like 'jealous.'

"It's okay, Gabs," Solo says after an awkward silence. Then he lets out an odd sort of huffing chuckle, which doesn't manage to sound amused. "Look, you really don't have to be so polite. I should've just left, before." He sits up, but before Gaby can react Illya's arm has shot across her body, stilling Solo with a hand on his shoulder.

"Why are you going?" Illya asks, his expression shifting between puzzled and slightly hurt. "I thought we could just have a nice night, the three of us. Watch Kill Bill. You don't have to pretend like..."

Now Gaby looks to Solo, who seems as perplexed as she is.

"Don't have to pretend like what?" she asks.

Illya flushes a little. Does some vague sweep of his hand between her and Solo.

"What is that supposed to— oh! _Oh_. No, no, it's okay, Illya. I know you two are..." Gaby mimics the hand gesture, between him and Solo. "And that's great!" she finds herself babbling, hating every word but unable to stop. "I'm really happy for you."

"Hang on. All of this time, that's what you thought?" Solo glances wildly between the two of them, annoying Gaby because she kind of wants to die rather than continue having this awkward conversation. But then, inexplicably, Solo bursts into laughter, unfeigned this time.

"What are you doing?" Illya demands, sounding almost as flustered as Gaby feels.

"Oh my God," Solo gets out between chuckles. "We are such _idiots_."

"Speak for yourself," Gaby shoots back.

"Oh no, you're not getting off easy for this either, Gabs." Solo's laughter trails off, and he looks at her again. "So, let me get this straight. You thought he and I were together?"

"Of course," she retorts, more than a little defensive at his tone. "I mean, you aren't doing a great job of hiding it. You're always talking about each other. Plus he stares at your lips. Constantly."

"I—I—that's not—" Illya sputters.

"Interesting. Filing that one away for later," Solo says with a smirk. "And you thought she and I were together?"

"Which I still don't get," Gaby adds. "Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'?" Illya replies stiffly. "Is very obvious how much you like each other. And this is okay. I can be friends with you."

"Very noble, Peril, but hold that thought for a minute because I'm starting to suspect we might not need such sacrifices," Solo pauses to take a fortifying breath, "because I thought you and she were together." When Gaby and Illya both demand an explanation, Solo chuckles again. "Are you kidding me? You don't know why? You two are obviously nuts about each other. It's really sweet. Almost sickeningly so."

"So wait," Gaby stammers, grappling only somewhat successfully with what she _thinks_ is happening but what can't possibly _be_ happening. There's just no way. Right? Illya, when she turns to him, is gaping blankly, like someone has rebooted his brain and he's only gotten to the logo screen.

"Yeah," Solo tells her, grinning.

"You like him _and_ me?" She winces at the baldness of her own tone, but refuses to walk it back. "Like, _like_ like?"

"Wow, very well said," Solo retorts. But when she scowls at him, he apologizes. "Sorry, sometimes when I'm nervous I say stupid shit. But yeah, I _like_ you. Both of you." He bites his lip. "A lot."

"I like you both too," Illya says from her other side, voice steady and certain.

Then they both lean forward to look at Gaby with those gorgeous blue eyes and hesitant, soft smiles that make her heart beat too fast. She can't even decide which one she wants to stare at more, keeps glancing between them as she feels a giddy grin begin to stretch her cheeks.

"Yeah?" Solo asks in a warm murmur.

She still can't quite believe this is happening, but she nods, breathless, taking another look at him, then at Illya, grappling with a new decision. The choice feels impossible. But then Illya bites his lip, and that settles it.

When her lips touch his, he takes a surprised little breath, but before she has time to panic he responds, sweet and gentle, one of his magnificently large hands cupping her cheek, drawing a hum of pleasure from her chest. She deepens the kiss, wrinkling her nose when she discovers that he tastes a bit of popcorn and beer, but it's _Illya_ and she's not sure if anyone has ever kissed her with such reverence and that more than makes up for it.

On her right, Solo shifts closer, his breath warm as he murmurs in her ear. "God, Gabs, you look so beautiful when he kisses you." His voice actually cracks with want, sending a thrill of heat through Gaby's body. "You're blushing," Solo tells her as Illya tugs her a little closer. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

"Yes," she manages to sigh against Illya's lips, urging on both of them.

"Good." She can hear the smile in Solo's tone right before he presses his lips to the sensitive skin just under her ear. Then Illya is tilting her head back a little, the change of angle letting him go a bit deeper, and Solo keeps pressing these _agonizingly_ soft kisses to her neck, and Gaby could nearly die from how much she _wants_.

It's only when Illya grunts and pulls away that she realizes in her distraction, what she'd intended as a playful nip had turned into more of a bite.

"Fuck," Gaby swears, pressing her forehead to his and gasping for air. Solo smiles into her neck at the oath, pausing after one kiss to suck at her skin, not hard enough to leave a mark but enough to get her cursing again because she needs more, more, more.

"My turn?" Solo asks, sounding far too amused at her desperation, which just won't do. So Gaby turns and tugs him up.

He's grinning against her mouth. It doesn't make for a good kiss at all, but it's stupidly endearing and Gaby finds herself smiling back, still learning to accept how much she wants to smile with these two. But she only lets him have a few moments of that before she gets down to business, and he, too, tastes like popcorn, and come to think of it she probably does too, but no one is complaining. As she kisses Solo, she feels Illya take the laptop off her legs, disappearing from her side for a second, but then he's back, scooping her hair up and dropping a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck, making her shiver.

All too soon, she pulls away from Solo, not wanting to stop but also desperately wanting him and Illya to finally kiss.

When they do, she understands what Solo meant when he said she looked beautiful kissing Illya, because these two are _perfect_ together. Already worked up from kissing her, it's not long before they switch from soft and exploratory to hard and fast, growling and moaning and sighing, every sound setting off a pulse of heat between Gaby's legs. The only downside is that they're leaning across her and she's kind of getting squished. So for a bit of revenge, but mostly because she can't resist the temptation, she leans closer and sets her mouth to the side of Illya's neck, feeling a little smug when he whines and breaks away from Solo to kiss her again.

For the next few minutes they're all making out and letting their hands wander and finding new ways to distract the others and it's pretty damn fantastic. At some point, Solo has just begun following the thumping pulse down her neck, which is amazing but she needs _more_ , so she pushes him back against the pillows and crawls atop him, finding him hard against her hip. And damn if that isn't tempting.

"Illya," she huffs against Solo's lips. "Illya, you—" Solo presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, distracting her. "Illya, do you have—" Trailing down her jaw, Solo is doing some truly miraculous things with his mouth which are destroying her ability to concentrate. "Oh my God, will you just let me think for a second?" she growls, rolling her eyes when he grins smugly. But he does stop. "Illya, you have condoms, right?"

Illya's hand, which had been drawing circles on the small of her back, twitches at the thought. Solo's eyes darken. They're both so easy. But then Illya seems to genuinely consider it, and his face twists in dismay.

"Seriously?" she asks, sitting up to look at him.

"Wasn't exactly expecting this. Don't you have any?"

She shakes her head, then turns to Solo below her.

"Nope," he says.

"Fuck," Gaby groans, tipping her head back and puffing out a breath. "Dammit."

When she looks back from the ceiling, the guys are staring at her. Illya's mouth is hanging open a little.

"What?" she retorts, refusing to feel any shame. "I had plans for you two. Plans that require condoms."

Illya actually groans at that, a sort of aroused, frustrated whine that rather nicely sums up what Gaby is feeling.

Solo, meanwhile, chuckles, sitting up to nuzzle the base of her throat. "My God, Gaby, you are _amazing_ ," he breathes into her skin. And though she knows he's talking about the sex, he just _has_ to be, the warmth in his voice, the way she can feel him smiling, have her stomach doing a little flip; nerves and excitement forming a heady mix which leaves her uncertain whether she wants to run or wants him to say it again.

Instead of doing either, she leans over and presses her lips to Illya's, harsh and demanding, taking all that he offers and doing her best to ignore Solo's words.

"There is still much we can do without condoms," Illya says against her lips, surprising her when his hand skates lower to palm her ass.

"Oh yeah?" she challenges. "What are we going to do? Tell me."

She's expecting Illya to flush. To evade. To back down. He's always seemed to have that adorable shy streak. But when he draws back to fix her with a hungry look, she begins to understand that she has underestimated him rather spectacularly.

"First, I will eat you out," he tells her, licking his lips eagerly and _fuck_ if Gaby doesn't whimper a little at that. Illya smirks at her response. "Get you off over and over again with my mouth and my hands. And then, I will watch him do the same." Then he pauses, just seeming to realize that he's spoken for Solo, and glances over. "If he wants?"

"Oh my God, yes. He wants. Very, very much," Solo agrees. "So, Gabs, what do you say?"

Two hot guys, offering to go down on her for as long as she wants, staring at her like they can barely wait to get started. Gaby has never felt luckier in her entire life. It's not _quite_ winning the lottery — after all, she can't pay off her student loans with this — but as far as dreams go, it's got to be a close second. And there's really only one thing she can say to an offer like that.

"Fuck yes."

* * *

Somewhere around what is either Gaby's second or third orgasm, she begins to understand why the French call it 'the little death'. Because she could nearly _die_ from how good she feels.

It had taken Illya a while to find her rhythm. Long enough that she'd been growing a bit disappointed, since she'd hoped that one of the perks of being an adult who has to do stupid shit like pay taxes and eat a vegetable every now and then is that she'd at least find some partners who are good at getting her off. And she'd started to feel, well, not awkward, exactly, but Solo didn't seem to know what to do with himself, and it felt like this was taking ages, so she'd been about to tell Illya not to bother.

But then Solo leaned over to kiss her, languid, easing her back from her frustrated, faintly embarrassed impatience. As he did this, Illya seemed to realize that his initial approach wasn't doing the trick and he switched his motions, subtle enough that Gaby didn't think it would change a lot, but all of a sudden the trick was _very_ much being done and after that Gaby had pretty much stopped thinking altogether.

"Il—Illya," she gasps as she comes down from orgasm number two or three. 'Or', because she's not entirely sure if it was just one of the _longest_ orgasms she's ever had, or if it was two separate ones back-to-back, but trying to figure that out is pretty far down her list of priorities right now. When she manages to look at Illya, his eyes are closed like this is utter bliss to him, beginning to move again even as she's still fluttering around his fingers, tripping over from amazing to agonizing. "Fuck. Illya. Illya, enough," she whimpers, squirming weakly away from his touch.

To his credit, he stops instantly, giving her a questioning stare, looking utterly debauched, his face shining with _her_. Gaby feels her sex clench at the image. At her side, Solo takes a sharp inhale.

"Just give me a minute," she manages to explain between breaths.

After Illya shifts up onto his elbows, Gaby closes her eyes and sort of drifts off, still conscious but focused entirely on the energy and sensation and peace humming through her body, savouring this moment of uncomplicated pleasure.

When he jostles her leg and she hears a growl, Gaby opens her eyes to find that Solo appears to have dragged Illya over for a kiss. Illya looks a bit stunned, more than anything, but Solo seems ravenous, running his tongue along Illya's lips with a groan, seeking the taste of _her_ like he's famished. Another fantasy that she didn't even know she had until she’s living it.

Less fantastic is how Illya is crushing her leg as he tries to get closer to Solo, which is nice to watch but she'd rather they not do this on top of her.

"Move." She shoves Illya's shoulder. "You're squishing me."

Solo breaks the kiss, reaching over to brush her hair out of her eyes, the gesture feeling strangely intimate. Especially considering that he just watched her have two-point-five-ish rather spectacular orgasms. But it's not unpleasant, and she finds herself pressing into the touch with a soft hum.

"How're you doing, Gabs?" he asks. "Still want me to have a go?"

The idea is actually tempting. She has no clue _how_ , but it is. Still, she shakes her head.

"Not now. Maybe later." She flops her hand vaguely in Illya's direction. "Do him first."

Her words provoke a snort from Solo, something of a strangled moan from Illya. Neither seems opposed.

"Any suggestions for what I should be doing to him?" Solo says with an amused grin.

"Use your mouth," she tells him, glad that they got the STD conversation out of the way before Illya went down on her. "And if he seems happy, then maybe I'll let you use it on me."

She's expecting another snort, maybe a roll of his eyes; most of the guys she's been with didn't really consider that a reward for them. But Solo's grin turns broader, his eyes darker. "Well," he says, voice suddenly low, "guess I'd better bring my A game, then. What do you say, big guy? Sound good?"

Based on how Illya is all but scrambling off Gaby to tug Solo in for another kiss, she's pretty sure that sounds good to him.

* * *

Based on the sounds that Illya is _making_ , Gaby is definitely sure that he's enjoying himself.

He'd started off quiet, as if determined not to give Solo the pleasure of gloating. But at some point, around when Gaby decided that helping would be more fun than just watching and nudged Solo's hand aside so she could wrap hers around the base of Illya's cock, Illya had lost all composure.

It's pretty damn satisfying, if she's being honest. With the way Illya moaned her name when she first touched him, she's happy to take at least a bit of credit for reducing him to a sweaty, trembling, swearing _wreck_ , even if Solo is doing most of the work.

He's doing such good work, she thinks, that he deserves a little praise.

"Solo," she murmurs.

Stilling, which provokes a desperate whine from Illya, Solo glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

"No, keep going," she tells him, giving Illya a squeeze. The look Solo gives her is a bit suspicious, but he does resume his motions. When she's sure he'll keep it up, she speaks again.

"You look so good sucking his cock," she croons, grinning wickedly when he makes a surprised little choking sound and his hips rut into the mattress. Now she knows why he was telling her those things when she was kissing Illya. This is _fun_.

"Does he taste good?"

Solo hums, his eyes drifting in a lazy blink before they find hers again, the intensity in them leaving her breathless for a moment. _God_.

She idly palms one of her breasts, letting out a soft sigh at the throb of want that builds in her. "Are you going to make him come soon?"

Another hum. Illya whimpers.

"And then are you going to go down on me?"

With an eager gleam in his blue eyes, Solo hums.

" _Close_ ," Illya chokes out, voice hoarse and strung tight.

Focus snapping back to Illya, Solo pulls off him as he bats Gaby's hand away to take over for the final few pumps. With a shout, Illya comes, groaning as he spurts on his own stomach and Solo's hand, letting out an almost regretful whine when Solo gently releases his softening length.

For a few seconds, everyone just breathes. Gaby lets her hand drift from her breast down to her stomach, not with real intent, but unable to deny the thrum of arousal that's built back up in her after watching those two.

"Are you okay, Illya?" she asks after a moment, because he's still gaping blankly at the ceiling. She sets a hand on his and gently loosens his death-grip on the bed sheets, smiling when his fingers curl around hers as if by instinct.

"I'm fantastic," he says breathlessly, a loopy, giddy smile rising on his face. It's impossibly cute.

"Well, I'll take that," Solo drawls. "Gabs, could you pass me—?"He gestures off to the side, making her turn until she sees a tissue pack on the cardboard box which seems to pass for Illya's bedside table. She tosses it over, averting her gaze a little as Solo wipes off his hand and cleans Illya up. Intellectually, she knows she shouldn't really have to look away; after all, she just saw them making that mess, but it still feels weirdly intrusive for her to just sit and watch. A bizarre social protocol of a threesome that she's never considered until now. But in the time it takes her to ponder that, they're finished and looking at her again.

"So, what do you want?" she asks Solo.

"Don't you want another round?"

"I mean, yes, but I..." She's certainly not going to say _no_ , but there's a rather unmistakable bulge in his boxer briefs, and she'd feel a tiny bit selfish asking for more now. "It's your turn, I think," she points out.

He snorts, but shakes his head. "I don't think this is about keeping score, Gabs. Besides, I'm going to be sleepy as all hell if I get off now, as demonstrated by Peril here." Illya does, indeed, look blissfully half awake, and he only manages a small grumble of protest at being used as an example. "And I just don't do my best work like that," Solo continues. "So, yeah?"

And, well, Gaby may have enough politesse to protest the first time, but declining his second offer would be rude, really.

* * *

As further evidence that Gaby's life isn't a fairy tale, it also takes Solo some time to figure out what works for her. Which, though disappointing, is satisfying in its own way, since Solo has always projected a bit of an ego and she now has some pretty solid evidence if she ever needs to take him down a few pegs.

She curls her hands in his hair, just about to start ordering him around, when Illya, whom she'd almost forgotten about, leans over to Solo.

"Can I _help_ you?" Solo breaks away to mutter as Illya hovers like a faintly disapproving vulture.

"Try very small circles with your tongue," Illya says in the exact same voice he uses to give her drawing advice. "She likes this better."

Solo rolls his eyes. But he also changes the movement of his tongue on her clit, and Gaby's whole body clenches with a sudden burst of arousal.

"Oh God, _fuck_ ," she swears shakily.

"See? Much better," Illya murmurs with more than a little pride. "How many fingers do you use?"

Solo's other hand, splayed across her stomach, curls until just his index finger is pointing out.

Illya makes a contemplative hum, eyes trailing up and down her body in a careful catalogue of her pleasure. She hears herself groan, feeling exposed and brave, the thrill of it sending sparks through her body. Illya nods to himself and turns back to Solo. "I think she's ready for another. What do you say, Gaby?" he questions, as casually as if wondering whether she thinks it's going to rain later.

"Yes. More."

Getting in on the game, Solo grins, then obediently adds another finger, searching but still not quite homing in on that one _spot_ inside her. Gaby growls in frustration.

"For her, is a bit lower than you might think," Illya comments. "I had trouble finding it too. But she responds...very well. You'll know when you have it."

Maybe Gaby should be embarrassed that they're discussing her like this, but somehow it's just a massive turn-on, especially since it _works_. Following Illya's guidance, Solo's fingers are exactly where she needs them, his mouth absolute magic, and Gaby swears again as every nerve in her body lights up. Now that he's figured things out, Solo is relentless, giving and giving as her orgasm builds and builds and builds until she lets out a hoarse moan, the first waves of heat and electricity crashing through her. Without hesitation, Solo just keeps _going_ , only stopping when she's whimpering and pushing clumsily at his head, and even then he pauses to press a little kiss to her clit, sending one more delicious, agonizing jolt through her before he draws away. Distantly, she feels Illya drop his own kiss to her forehead, and she finds just enough energy to make a vague noise in her throat by way of response.

"Well," Gaby pants after a few seconds. "I'm _really_ glad I didn't jerk you off earlier."

Solo snorts, his forehead dropping to her belly while he chuckles. She pets his hair, smiling when he nuzzles into the touch.

"Told you it would be worth it," Solo says, his breath cool on her sweaty skin. "You done?"

"Oh God, yes, I'm done." She blinks up at the ceiling, considering for a moment before she amends her statement. "Well, give me a few hours, at least."

"I will put reminder in my phone," Illya deadpans, earning him an eye roll from Gaby.

"One last thing," Gaby points out. With a little tug on Solo’s hair, she persuades him to look up at her. "Can I get you off _now_?"

He gives her brilliant grin. "Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

And finally, at long last, Gaby gets to drag Solo's boxer briefs off and get a look at that ass she's been admiring ever since she'd seen Illya's drawings. Not only that, she gets to _grab_ said ass, too, which makes Solo produce a ridiculous little choked-off chuckle. Illya tries to get involved, but she gives him a stern look, unready to share and determined to not let them have all the fun of making other people orgasm.

Though she'd been considering using her mouth on Solo, as she takes him in hand he groans and his hips jerk desperately, like he won't last long enough for her to give him a proper blow job. Which, when she thinks about it, isn't surprising. After all, she's almost certain that he's been hard this whole time, so it's understandable that he's so far gone. Next time she'll tease him and show off a little. Right now it's obvious that he just needs to jerk off hard and fast, which Gaby can definitely help him with.

He shudders as he comes, a strangled groan rumbling through his chest. Once he's done he slumps bonelessly into Illya, who curls an arm around his waist and gazes down at him with soft eyes. Gaby drapes herself against both of them, enjoying the warm, naked cuddle pile for a long moment until they simultaneously untangle long enough to clean up.

Emerging from the bathroom, Gaby hurries over to snuggle up against Solo, who greets her with a drowsy hum and a press of his lips to her shoulder, burying his face in her skin and sighing with contentment. Then Illya nudges him, prompting Solo to turn and drop a kiss to the tip of his nose, making Illya chuff in amusement.

"You know," Solo declares brightly as he settles back against the pillows, "I think that went rather well, all things considered."

Maybe it's just the post-coital haze, but this is somehow hilarious to Gaby, who snickers, and evidently to Illya too since he dissolves into a burst of chuckles, which makes Solo crack up in turn and then they're all laughing and _God,_ it feels good. She scowls at herself a little, then, because she's never been this person, silly and giggly. But maybe, she realizes, she's just been looking for the right people to share it with.

"What?" Illya asks, sensing her change in mood.

"You two are making me go soft," she tells him with a huff.

"Is that bad?"

She shakes her head. "No. But if you tell anyone, you are dead."

"Yes, ma'am," Illya retorts, flashing her a saucy grin. But then he leans across Solo to tug her in for a kiss that she sees coming, but that surprises her nevertheless. It's not heated, and he's not letting her rush it, but instead it's gentle and sincere. Somehow it feels like a promise. It sends an odd jolt through her nerves, that this _means_ something.

But that's far too much for her to process tonight, so she lets herself just bask in the moment, curling into Solo after Illya withdraws and savouring the heat of his body, the way he nuzzles the crown of her head when she shifts to use his chest for a pillow, letting herself be lulled to sleep by the steady thump of his heart and the soft sighs of Illya's breathing.

* * *

"There's still one thing I don't understand," Gaby says the next morning, leaning back against the kitchen counter and idly playing with the t-shirt she stole from Illya, bunching up the hem where it's billowing around her thighs.

Standing at the cracked cooktop, Illya turns to give her a quizzical look, the muscles of his bare shoulders shifting rather distractingly. Gaby bites her lip. Though shirtless Illya is pretty amazing, it's still a bit of a crime that he's wearing pajama pants. She'll have to fix that later.

"If you two weren't actually together before now," she asks, "how did you break the chair?"

Solo laughs as he squeezes past her to get to the fridge. Illya's kitchen is as undersized as the rest of his flat, and Gaby is definitely more hindrance than help to their breakfast preparations, but she doesn't want to go sit on the bed. It looks so cold and lonely without them.

"You thought he and I broke it having sex?" Solo chuckles.

"He got all flustered when I tried to ask!"

"Is really not a big deal," Illya stammers evasively. "You don't have to tell h—"

"Nice try, there's no way I'm letting you live it down," Solo says, voice lilting with delight. He tries to push past Gaby again, but Illya has shifted, leaving no room to move. Solo gives her a look. Gaby glares up at him.

"I'm helping."

"What you are is in my way," Solo responds as he leans closer, boxing her in with his arms while he sets the bread on the counter behind her. His hands return to brush her hips as he sways closer still. "And distracting, too," he murmurs. "How are we supposed to get any work done when you're standing around wearing his shirt and looking too fucking sexy for words?"

His blue eyes are gleaming as he smirks down at her, the dark swath of stubble on his jaw so tempting that she can't resist reaching up to palm the side of his face.

"I'm sure you can find a way to keep going," she retorts, giving him a little pat on the cheek.

He turns his head and nips at the side of her hand. "Well, I know one way I can make some room." Before she has time to figure out his meaning, he's lifting her by the hips, provoking a surprised yelp from her, and setting her easily on the counter. As he reaches past her to retrieve the bread, she rolls her eyes but stays where he's put her.

"And to answer your question," he continues, walking over to Illya's other side, "Peril here found out that we both have some martial arts training, and came up with the brilliant idea of showing me some new throws. In his shoebox of an apartment."

"He threw you against the chair?"

"Oh no, it gets better." He turns on the toaster, then turns to Illya with a magnanimous wave of his hand. "Would you like to tell her?"

Illya mutters something in Russian, stabbing at the bacon he's tending as if one of the strips has just insulted his parentage. Solo cackles.

"I'll take that as a no. So, I'm pretty sure he thought I was some sort of amateur. Which, don't get me wrong, I'm no pro, but I do alright. Long story short, I threw _him_ against the chair."

"Oh my God," Gaby manages to sputter before laughter overtakes her. Illya glares. "Are you okay, Illya?" she asks once she finds her breath again.

"I'm fine," he grumbles, shoulders hunching. "Chair was very old, it broke easily."

"Good. I'm glad you're not hurt," she tells him as she sways closer to kiss his cheek, which seems to mollify him. He turns to kiss her sweetly on the lips, making her hum in contentment.

"Oh for God's sa— Come on, you're burning the bacon," Solo scolds when they continue, jostling Illya out of the way to take over at the stove. "You two really are sickeningly sweet."

"And you two aren't?" she shoots back after drawing away from Illya. "I saw how you were cuddled together when I woke up this morning."

"That's not my fault."

"You were spooning him."

"Well, okay, _technically_ yes, but I still blame him, because—"

"Are you two going to just stand around arguing all morning?" Illya interjects, passing Gaby a plate. "Food is ready. You're both ridiculous."

It's nowhere close to the most romantic morning after that Gaby can imagine. The bacon is a bit burnt, the toast some weird multigrain bread that Illya insists is healthy, and there's no table or chairs so they all just eat in the kitchen, the guys standing, Gaby sitting on the counter, swinging her legs and poking Solo in the thigh until he captures her foot and threatens to tickle her. But it's comfortable, and when the guys start bickering about Marvel movies she uses the time to plan exactly how she's going to get them naked again.

 _Yes_ , she thinks to herself, _this definitely beats day-drinking alone in my flat._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to my darling beta. And to nymphae, thank you for the delightful prompts, I hope this at least somewhat captures what you were looking for!


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